One minute forty seconds… he couldn’t fight against the urge to breathe any longer. His whole body was racked with severe shooting pains as his muscles demanded a fresh supply of oxygen. His willpower was losing the battle to prevent his body from doing what it did naturally. He inhaled, feeling the cool, salty water enter his larynx. But there was no relief from the pain. His bronchi, unable to recognise the fluid as something it could process, rejected it, making him cough. But, as he spluttered, he breathed in more water. So this is what it feels like to drown, the thought flashed through his mind.
One minute forty-five seconds… his cognitive function was unimpaired; he knew exactly what was happening to him, but was unable to control the convulsions. He gasped one last time and felt a rush of air enter his respiratory tract. He thrashed around, trying desperately to keep his head above the waterline, frantically gulping in the life-saving sustenance in-between retches. After a few more breaths, his lungs resumed their normal rhythm and the spasms subsided, but he was exhausted.
He looked around to get his bearings. He was being carried along by the wave; it took all his effort to stay afloat by treading water. He had surfaced a good distance behind the leading edge and was elevated enough to see that it had already made landfall; the beach and the line of cars beyond were totally submerged. He knew his chances of surviving were slim unless he could find a buoyancy aid. He craned his neck to see over the tons of seaweed that lay in a carpet of green around him and spotted something white bobbing up and down a hundred yards away to his left. He summoned the last reserves of his energy and swam over to it.
CHAPTER 29
Tom was unsure at first what had woken him, and then he realised it was the urgency in the voice on the TV.
They had spent what seemed like hours wrestling with their handcuffs in an effort to free themselves, but to no avail. It was only when their wrists became too bloodied and painful to continue that they had to admit defeat. Even if they had managed to get out of their constraints, there was still the locked door to deal with and possibly an armed guard on the other side.
Resigned to the fact that they would have to look for another opportunity to escape, either when they were being transported to the Collider or when they were in it, they started to theorise on how best they could thwart Deiter’s plans. They had managed to keep a track of time using the digital clock on the TV, so Tom knew it was some time after four in the morning before they had formulated the outline of a strategy that could, theoretically, work. Not being an exact science, there were no guarantees as to the effectiveness of their postulations. The best they could hope for would be to slow the polar reversal down enough to give people time to react, either by mass evacuation of the potentially dangerous areas like coastlines and fault lines, or preparing themselves for the inevitable. At least they would have a choice and, possibly, a chance.
To put their theory to the test obviously involved at least one of them escaping, and that person was nominated as Tom. Frederick had the most knowledge and Serena was the fittest, but Tom had enough of both to make him the ideal candidate. The other two said they were prepared to sacrifice themselves if necessary to ensure that he got away. Tom’s remonstrations at the thought of this were only half-hearted; he knew, deep down, that it may be the only way to save millions of lives. He also knew, without question, that if he were in their position, he would do the same.
He couldn’t remember dozing off, but the sleep he did manage to get was restless and fitful, not aided by the fact that the nylon cord binding him to the chair dug into his arms every time he tried to move. He looked across at his fellow captives, who were reposing in a similar, uncomfortable position, before turning his attention back to the now almost hysterical voice on the TV that had woken him up.
The image on the screen was grainy and kept going in and out of focus; it was evident that the person taking the footage was doing so on their mobile phone, high up in a building. Regardless of the lack of visual clarity, Tom could make out a lone figure clambering onto a surfboard. If it hadn’t been for the tickertape words running along the bottom of the newscast, he would have sworn he was watching some holidaymaker getting out of his depths in rough seas. But he did read it: ‘Newsflash — mega tsunami hits Gold Coast of Australia, thousands presumed dead.’
The running commentary from the person taking the film, despite being heavily censored for expletives, helped define what the viewers were watching.
‘Bleep me, this guy’s bleep-ing nuts. He’s on the board, he’s on the board, he’s lying on the board, now he’s trying to get up. Bleep me, have you seen the size of that bleep-ing wave! That’s one mother bleep of a wave. He’s up, he’s up on the board. No, he’s down again, he’s kneeling down. He’s trying to steady himself. He’s back on his feet… steady… steady… he’s up. He’s riding it, he’s riding the mother bleep. Bleep me, I’ve never seen anything like it! This guy must have bleeps of steel.
‘He’s turning, he’s coming back the other way, he’s trying to keep his speed steady. Go man! You can do it! He’s turning again, he’s about two hundred yards out, but he’s moving too fast. If he comes in at that speed he’ll be smashed against the buildings like a squashed bleep-ing tomato. Hundred and fifty yards. He’s turning again. Slow the bleep down, man! A hundred yards. He’s kneeling down again, now he’s lying down, he’s dragging his feet in the water. Fifty yards… he’s gonna do it! He’s slowing down. He’s past where the beach was. He’s level with the buildings. Grab the tree, grab the bleep-ing tree. He’s got it. The tree’s snagged him. Bleep that’s got to bleep-ing hurt. He’s lost his board, but he’s alright. I can see him climbing up the branches to the top of the tree. He’s safe. That’s more than I can say for us. Bleep me, the water’s up to the third floor. We need to get on the bleep-ing roof!’
‘I see you’ve been keeping up to date with how our little experiment is going.’ Deiter had entered the room whilst Tom had been preoccupied with the drama unfolding on TV.
Damn, that’s the second time he’s sneaked up on me. Tom made a mental note to keep looking over his shoulder whenever Deiter was in the vicinity. Not that he was planning to be around him for much longer. But his heart sank when he saw the two goons who had followed him through the door. Both sported crew cuts, a thickset jaw and a physique Arnold Schwarzenegger would be jealous of. They were killing machines and their weapons of choice appeared to be Kalashnikovs, which hung loosely over their shoulders.
So much for making a run for it on the way to the Collider, Tom thought despondently. He glanced over at Serena, who was stirring from her sleep. Her expression changed from placid to consternation as she became aware of her situation.